


Gilded

by lucylumiere (not_a_princess)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Blood Magic, Imperialism, Multi, Not quite sure why I'm writing this but we'll see, blackinfanfiction, inspired by "Where do you think all this gold came from?", metaphors and shit, Ásgarðr | Asgard (realm)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_a_princess/pseuds/lucylumiere
Summary: Zahra, a Midgardian snatched up from her home and brought into the midst of a gilded Inferno, makes a deal with the Devil.





	1. Limbo

Before stepping foot on Asgard, Zahra had never seen much of gold. There was Sor Hilda in the convent who the gold cross around her neck, and Señor Olmedo with his golden tooth who frequented the town square. A little here, a little there. Mostly mixed with copper, zinc, other, not as precious metals.

But in the royal palace--the aptly-named Golden Palace--it was rumored to be virtually impossible to find oneself in a room that didn’t have at least some amount of pure gold.

She hated it.

Despite the luxury that surrounded her, she longed to return to her little hovel where things made just a little bit more sense. She had never really been the adventurous type. Other children, from the orphanage, had had all these desires to go on grand excursions to Asgard, Alfheim, Vanaheim, and even Jontunheim and Muspelheim.

Zahra had had no such craving.  

Yes, she was interested in learning about things outside her own experience and culture; was even gifted at languages. However, early in life she was moved around from place to place so often that when she finally got a chance to settle down in one spot, she did without hesitation.

...If she ever did craved adventure, there were always books--her preferred method of travel. Books were safe, her favorite little feature in the safe little world she’d made for herself.

Of course now, in an ironic twist, the fates would have her now act the part of her beloved protagonists: first she was Joseph, sold into bondage by her own brother. Now she was Dante venturing further and further into Hell, except she had no guide, no Virgil, and certainly no sweet Beatrice waiting for her on the other side.

Well, then, she supposed, this was nothing like her books after all, but something entirely different that she was wholly unprepared for.

With a sigh, Zahra wrung her hands together before reaching for one of the doors. In all of her wild imaginings of what life might be like on Asgard, she’d never pictured herself as she was now--a captive, a slave, and now a spy within the halls of the Golden Palace.

Earth--Midgard, whatever you wish--had, before her time, been taken long ago and imperialized by the forces of Odin. She knew next to nothing about her lineage, having grown up in one of the All-Father’s colonies in Europa, only knowing that her mother’s mother had hailed from a large kingdom south of the Sahara, and that an ancestor on her father’s side had been something called a Moor. She was an orphan with no tangible lineage.

She only had stories, ideas, and dreams, but she drew on all of those now. Under her breath, an entreaty to her ancestors: _“Déme su fuerza_.”

Give me your strength.

She knocked on the ornate, intricately carved door, and waited.

  
  


 

 

A little more than a fortnight ago, Zahra had been inspected and purchased in a Seville marketplace by the Lady Sif. Sif, aside from being the future queen of Asgard, was a cunning woman who had once been wronged by her husband-to-be’s brother, the younger prince, Loki.

Long ago--before Zahra, her mother or even her grandmother were born--was the night when the unscrupulous Loki crept into Sif’s room and sheared off all of her then-blonde hair, but the breach in trust seemed mighty fresh. But of course, there was more to it than just that.

Sif believed Loki to be of a dark heart, with a mind to wrest the throne from Thor.

Of course, what did any of that really mean to Zahra? No matter who was on the throne, she would still be on Asgard, separated from what little family she had. She would still be a slave regardless of whether or not Loki stole the throne from Thor. She continued to wait, shivering slightly: The corridor was cold and she wore a thin, billowy, chiffon shift that left absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination.

Still, she was to do what Sif told her to do, or be punished severely. And on the eve of Loki’s name-day, Lady Sif made the decision to send her as a _gift_ to Prince Loki. But she was no ordinary trinket. Rather, Zahra was to become a spy, ordered to report back to her lady every so often with tales of Loki’s exploits. Her mission was to inch his way into the prince’s heart and learn his weaknesses, his desires, his fears. She was to go to Sif directly if she ever caught wind of anything even remotely suspicious.

Zahra knew in her heart she was nothing but a pawn, another nameless mayfly caught in a conflict between greater forces who would shred her apart easily. She wondered whether she could she fight her destiny or if she’d just dissolve into oblivion like the rest of the humans.

Suddenly, the door swung open and she found herself face-to-chest with the form of Prince Loki, who peered down at her with an expression equal parts curiosity and annoyance. Zahra started, having floated away in thought since she’d first knocked on the door. The scent of bergamot, incense and a blast of warm, moist air wafted out of the room, seeping into the hallway.

His ebony hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders, damp--he must’ve just bathed--and he only wore a pair of soft, off-white muslin pants. “I’ve never seen _you_ before,” he murmured, his thin mouth tilting down as he took a long, calculating look at her. “Who are you?”

Dutifully submissive, Zahra lowered her head, staring at her feet. “I am a gift from Lady Sif,” she recited, “in honor of your-name day, my lord.”

A thumb tipped her chin up, not ungently, and she tried not to be put off by the intensity of his green eyes as they bored into hers. “A gift,” he murmured. “I see,” his hand fell from her face and he stepped aside, presenting the way into his rooms with an upraised arm and a small enigmatic smile. “Do come in.”

Zahra did as she was told and the doors behind her closed with a sense of finality. She was reminded of the scene of _Inferno_ when Dante enters Hell’s gates; the message inscribed into the entrance: _Abandon all hope, ye who enter._ Once again, she asked her ancestors for their strength, and now their wisdom as well.

 

 

 

 

 

It was said that the Devil lived in splendor, and Loki’s quarters were certainly drenched in it, from the high vaulted ceiling to the lush, carpeted floor. The room was decorated in accents of gold and emerald, and his bed was the largest she’d ever seen in person, with soft, silky-looking black sheets. A door in the rear was left ajar and she could see a peek of an extravagant ensuite bathroom.

She could smell frankincense and lavender; the familiar scents were soothing, although she still had the urge, very strongly, to rip out running from the place. Instead she pressed herself forward.

As she ventured further into the prince’s chambers, he regarded her closely, all but circling her like the haughty predator he was. Zahra resisted the temptation to jut out her chin and stare at him in the face in defiance. Instead, she kept her gaze steady on the pale column of his neck as he continued to look at her. “A gift,” he repeated, his voice just louder than a whisper. She could feel his eyes focus in on her dark brown nipples and the triangle of dark curls on her mound, everything made visible through the sheer material of her dress.

“Tell me: what is your name?”

“Bótny.”

“Is _that_ the name Sif chose for you? How appalling. No, I want your _real_ name.”

This request took Zahra aback: no Asgardian had yet cared to know her true name. In truth, she’d thought to hide it, the one last piece of herself that she could keep. Other captives had refused to use their given names and asserted their birth names--and although this usually led to floggings, everyone did it anyway--but Zahra had always kept her name to herself, her precious secret, her last, prized possession. Of course, now Loki wanted her to give it up to him.

Couldn’t she keep something, _any_ thing, to herself in this realm?

“Well?” Loki was still waiting on an answer. His face was yet unreadable to her but she figured that impatience was probably somewhere to be found there.

“Zahra,” she pronounced, finally. “My name is Zahra.” Surprisingly, she didn’t feel all of her power leak out of her bones as her tongue moved around the now rarely used syllables, as she’d feared. She felt--something different. Something unexplainable, something she couldn’t at that instance say was either negative or positive, erupted in her; and, she looked at Loki right in his emerald eyes when she said her name the second time.

His eyes were more intense than ever and he hummed lowly in approval. “Much less pedestrian than _Bótny_.” Loki grinned widely, showing off his sharp, white canines. His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare her down. “Sif has sent you here to kill me, hasn’t she?”

Zahra blinked. He thought she was an assassin? Not quite, but…“I--no. Why would you think that? My Prince?” She added the honorific hastily.

Loki laughed. “Your attempts at obeisance are amusing,” he started, slowly taking a step closer to her. “Nevertheless, it is known far and wide that Sif hates me. Why would she, of all people, bequeath me a such a _gift_?”

“I’m sure it’s not the case that she _hates_ you,” Zahra said, delicately. Oh, it was most _definitely_ the case. Loki lifted a single eyebrow, apparently insulted by her attempt at obliviousness. All traces of the grin that had been there before were completely gone.

“Do not try to lie to me, girl; I am the _god_ of lies.” he hissed. “Tell me your true purpose or I _will_ skin you alive.” He advanced upon her, bullying her into a corner, placing a hand around her throat--it wasn’t exactly painful, but it was definitely a firm enough grip to get the message across.

Zahra winced. Sif had given her a similar threat for if she _told_ Loki the truth, and she found it hard to doubt either one’s ability to follow through. “She didn’t send me here to make an attempt on your life,” she finally said. And, she added mentally, it wasn’t as though she’s be much of a match for him anyway.

“Oh?” Loki asked, hand still casually threatening her windpipe, “then what _did_ she send you here for, dressed so, a gift for my name-day?”

Unspoken between the two of them was the obvious answer: why else would she be sent down to him, practically naked, skin and hair slathered down with scented oils in the middle of the night?

Truly, she was a mayfly caught between the two feuding powers. She’d end up dead either way, she thought. And honestly, she found herself fearing a death at the hands of Loki more intensely than one from Sif. Sif was a predictable warrior and would simply wring her neck, or run her through with her sword, likely.

But Loki--he was a sorcerer. He would be creative and make her suffer. And something about those intense eyes told her that he knew exactly how to find her worst fears and nightmares and make them real.

“I will have the truth,” Loki reiterated angrily, startling her out of her inner debate.

 _Good Lord._ Should she plead for her life? Attempt some form of bargain--a _bargain,_ with the god of mischief and lies? _I’m going to end up dead either way,_ she thought. _Aren’t I?_

Loki was brother of Thor, well-loved by the thunder god despite Sif’s feelings; and once Thor became king, he would be Thor’s most senior advisor, as well as heir-apparent to the throne until Thor and Sif produced their own heir. Therefore, he was more powerful than Sif. It would be wiser to seek out his good graces. Right?

And before he’d gotten angry, right after she’d told him her name, she saw something on his face that she knew she’d never see on Sif’s: desire. And she knew that desire, across the realms, made men do things they wouldn’t normally do. And she knew that though he called himself a god--though they all called themselves gods--he was still a man. He might not kill her after all.

“I…” she began nervously, before pointedly clearing her throat. Loki loosened his grip around her neck, to let her speak. She continued, wringing her hands together. “Sif...wants me to spy on you. She wants me to seduce you and learn your weaknesses and find out if you are plotting against Thor’s ascendence to the throne. She wants me to distract you while she plots against you.” It all came out in a rush of words. By his expression, she could tell that Loki believed her. His hands that had been around her throat were limp at his side and his intense green eyes were locked onto hers as she gave the confession that would change her life.

Zahra explained further: “She says---she says you’re of a dark heart and...and now she’ll kill me,” she breathed once she realized what she’d done. There was no going back now. Loki no longer seemed like he was seconds away from strangling her but his austere presence was discomfiting. He was still cornering her. “ _Dios mio,_ she’s going to kill me,” she repeated shakily.

Like the mythical Pandora, Zahra had let everything out. There was no putting this back in the box.

  


 

 

 

To hear it said aloud that Sif was plotting against him, going so far as to deploy a little Midgardian woman in order to _seduce_ him, well, that--honestly did not shock him very much. He knew Sif hated him, had hated him from the beginning, even before he’d pulled that ill-advised hair-cutting prank.

Possibly, it was because he once had tried--very publically--to arrange a marriage between his older brother Thor and Amora the Enchantress (and it might’ve worked out very well, he thought, if it weren’t for some of Amora’s more bizarre idiosyncrasies.)

Or maybe, it had something to do with the fact that he had almost ruined her engagement to Thor when he exposed some previous affairs she’d had. And, well, it was probably at least partially that, but he could _not_ be blamed for _her_ questionable decisions.

In truth, there were a lot of things she might be angry with him for. But for her to be _plotting?_ Norns. Though, this, he had to admit, was somewhat well-thought out. She had definitely picked out the right woman for the job.  

The young Midgardian certainly had her charms: smooth, soft-looking skin that was a rich, deep, and sun-kissed brown. Curly hair, black as his own, that framed around her lovely face like a halo. Plump pink lips and large, dark and expressive eyes that bespoke of a hidden fire that was smoldering just below.

...And it would be remiss to forgo the observation of her body. Had he been a lesser man, he would have never been able to take his eyes off of her full bosom or her thick hips, assets put on full display for him.

Yes, Sif knew him, or at least his preferences in women, well. Perhaps a little too well for his comfort; but not just well enough yet to bring about his downfall. And yet...well.

What plot could Sif have against him, anyway? he wondered. Clearly, the Midgardian knew, or could find out, if what she revealed to him was in fact the truth. And he knew she _had_ told the truth.

He could recognize the truth just as easily as he recognized lies--it only stood to reason, after all.

And there were a variety of truths on the face of the little Midgardian woman. First truth: she was terrified. And well within her rights to be--caught as she was between beings much more powerful than she.

“ _Dios mio,_ ” she called out to her god in Castilian. (So she was from Europa, he noted.) “She’s going to kill me.”

Yes, if Sif found out that she had told him her intentions, she would kill her. But that would be such a waste. Truly, the woman was very pretty, uncommonly so. There were possibilities for her. She would make an excellent courtesan; perhaps he could entreat Amora or Lorelei to train her in the arts....

“She will not kill you,” Loki muttered. “Not if I have her ruined first.” He regarded Zahra for a moment before inclining his head. “And you?” he prompted. “What do you think of my heart? Do _you_ believe it to be dark?”

Zahra wrung her hands together again, looking down at the carpeted floor. “If my lord permits me to ask a question…”

“ _Your lord_ prefers it that you call him Loki.”

She looked straight at him, making eye-contact now. How striking she was, he thought, with her fierce, midnight colored eyes, when she dared to look him in the eye. “If I can answer your question, _Loki,_ with one of my own?”

 _Norns,_ the way she said his name--maybe he was in for some trouble, after all. Oh, but he liked trouble... “Yes?”

“Wouldn’t you think that every Asgardian slave-owner has a dark heart?”

Second truth: She was braver than he’d thought she was. For a beat, Loki stared at her in silence. She stared back, half in defiance and half in frozen uncertainty of whether her mouth had already ruined her chances of living. At least, that’s what he figured, because any other Aesir would’ve had her flayed alive for saying such a thing.

Instead, he asked her. “Do you want your freedom?”

Zahra said nothing, at first, and Loki wondered if she hadn’t actually heard him, or if maybe she thought it was a rhetorical question. What slave rejected freedom, desiring bondage in its stead? Of course, he knew of many who did. Slaves whose parents, grandparents, and so on, had been enslaved on Asgard, part of a generations-long cycle. These people knew no life outside of bondage and feared the unknown.

But he could tell that Zahra was not an example of such a person. She had seen the world--or at the very least, _her_ world, and was quite ready to return to it. Another truth written upon her face.

“Of course I do,” she said finally, softly. “Yes. More than anything.”

 

 

 

 

 

Zahra’s face was impassive as she studied the latest Aesir to be in charge of her fate. At least she could say with certainty that he would not kill her; not if she stood there still alive after insulting his entire race as she had. “I will free you,” he said finally. “If you assist me with my plans.” He now gazed at her intensely, boring straight into her with his bright green eyes.

“And what are your plans?”

Loki turned his back to her, walking across the plush carpets of his room to a golden plated armoire and opening the doors. “Still in development. You needn’t know too much, not yet. As you become relevant, you shall be informed.”

Zahra finally straightened up her posture. When one was making a deal with the Devil, one had to be absolutely certain of the terms--or perish. Her voice was level, careful, but firm.“And, after the part of your plan that is relevant to me has been accomplished, you promise me, you give me your word...that you will release me?”

Loki looked back at her with an eyebrow raised, green eyes guileless. “Of course.”

Zahra gathered up all of her anxiety and placed it somewhere far away, for this was her _life_ she was bargaining with. “Loki,” she said his name with as much strength as she could muster.

He had turned his back to her, but now he turned sharply, as if an invisible force yolked him to her. He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, little Midgardian?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing her reaction to being called _little_ before speaking. “You are known for your trickery, and you yourself have said this evening that you are the god of lies...I require some proof of our agreement, something that promises that you will not go back on your word.”

His face shifted into an expression Zahra couldn’t altogether perceive. He seemed...intrigued, perhaps. “You wish to enact a contract?”

She shook her head, a small smile on her face. “Not exactly.” A sheet of paper, even one with his signature was useless. She couldn’t very well appeal to the authorities of Asgard on this matter should Loki decide to change his mind. No, she needed something with power, meaning, and strength. “I want your blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was intriguing and what-not. So after seeing Ragnarok, my little anthropologist mind was intrigued by the underlying motifs of imperialism and oppression that Waititi used to drive integral parts of the plot, like, Hela saying “Where do you think all this gold came from?” It got me thinking about what if Asgard treated Midgard and the other realms more like colonial properties, and there was a trans-galactic slave trade, and how that might have shaped our own histories. And I’m not sure if what I wrote just then made any sense at all. I’m not exactly a history expert, or sure of how one properly blends historical fiction and sci-fi, so I’m open to any and all constructive criticisms.


	2. Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey wassup hello
> 
> I just wanted to say thanks for the kudos and the subscribe and the comment! I love y'all, and I hope you continue to enjoy my fic as it develops.
> 
> Also: my face claim for Amora is Dichen Lachman. She's gorgeous!

“She wants to engage in blood magic to seal the deal with you?” Amora’s silky voice was tinged with amusement. “Impressive. I believe I’d like to meet this Midgardian.” She was sprawled out luxuriously on the top of his duvet, a golden trail of magickal energy oscillating leisurely between her fingers. Amora was Vanir, but she had as much talent and control when it comes to magick as any Aesir.

“Well,” Loki replied wearing a tilted smile. “I _had_ hoped that you might train her in the arts of courtensanry.” Amora had been a well-known presence in the Aesir court for over a century. She, as well as her sister, Lorelei, had been wards of the crown and ladies-in-waiting of Loki’s mother, Queen Frigga, before the queen’s untimely death. Many found Amora's closeness to the family puzzling or improprietary, but she made it very well known how much she didn’t care. Loki considered her to be his oldest and best friend.

Amora hummed, turning his request over in her head. “Is she pretty, then?”

“Very.”

“And she’s hopefully clever, if she’s privy to bloodspell,” Amora pursed her lips, arching imperious eyebrows at the prince. “One must be both to be a proper courtesan.”

“It is my expectation that you will not find her wanting in either category, dear Amora,” Loki answered.

“Then I will consider the matter,” she said,  twirling a long strand of blonde hair around her index finger. “On one condition.”

“And what might that be?” Loki asked curiously, inclining his head.

“I want you to honor the blood pact with her.”

Loki grimaced. “Amora, surely you do not--”

Amora’s eyes sharpened as she cut him off. “Surely I do not _what_?”

“Surely you do not subscribe to such utter nonsense.”

“You forget: I am from Vanaheim, Loki. We believe in the power of blood. In fact,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “Asgardians are the only ones who have forgotten the old powers.”

Loki sputtered. He knew that Amora was Vanir, but he had never heard her speak like this before. “The _old_ powers?”

Amora had risen to her feet now, and stomped one atop the carpeted floor with force. “The Norns, Loki. I know you’re not _stupid._ ”

“The Norns were slaughtered millenia ago,” Loki insisted, his eyebrows drawn together in confused anger, before parroting: “I know you’re not _stupid._ ”

Amora shook her head doubtfully. “You can’t kill a Norn.”

“Well,” Loki began petulantly, “there is a planet full of dead ones that beg to differ.”

“You say this as if we are not two sorcerers standing in the same room. You know that nothing ever truly dies. Least of all a Norn.” She deflated slightly. “I see that you will not be moved today, dearest friend, but please do this and I will train the girl as you please. Go through with the pact. Treat her as an equal, as you do with me. That’s the only way this plan of yours will succeed.”

“You _are_ equal to me, Amora,” Loki protested. “ _Midgardians_ are--”

“Different?” Amora supplied. Her eyes flashed with an anger that Loki thought he would never understand. “We are not equals, Loki. Asgard yet rules over Vanaheim, so don’t go saying we’re _equals,_ because might get yourself into some trouble, my Prince.”

 

 

 

 

 

Zahra had dreamed, the previous night, that she stood upon the yellow-gold sand of a calm, warm beach. The blue ocean lapped against the coast and when she walked into the water, it was impossibly clear, even ot deepened. She waded and the water remained warm and blue and clear. When she dove deeper, she opened her eyes in the clear, clean water and saw the expanse of the entire ocean. She saw every sea beast there ever was, and the shadows of the birds flying high above. Overcome by the beauty of Creation, she wept, contributing her part.

She suddenly noticed that she was standing paces away from the edge of a huge underwater cliff.

 

A voice: loud, slow and distorted. “ _Saaalte.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loki had provided her with several servant’s dresses, ones distinctly more modest than the transparent shift she’d worn to his chambers the previous night. What she wore now in the morning was a dark emerald green--Loki’s color, of course, to show that she had changed ownership--and its hem dragged the floor just slightly as she walked down the corridor. In truth, it was the nicest thing she’d worn since she was sold to market. But it still signified that she _belonged_ to someone.

Hopefully, she thought, her part in Loki’s machinations would play out and she would soon be able to go back to wearing whichever color she pleased. Or, alternatively, she might be allowed to choose what color she’d be donning at her execution. Her dark thoughts sobered her, and she straightened up, determined to convincingly play her role in all of this. She had to play everything perfectly; even if she still wasn’t sure she trusted Loki’s word in all of this (would she ever be sure, though?). She hurried as she continued down the halls, walking with purpose.

It was strange to be in the Ladies’ wing again. She didn’t know how she should act. Of course, Loki had told her to just act as though nothing outside of Sif’s expectations had happened. As he had so crassly put it, “Tell anyone who asks that I fucked you and appointed you as my personal handmaiden.” Apparently, that was something that happened a lot with Midgardian women and Asgardian nobles.

In their case, it was a half-truth: he had made her his personal servant, to be at his every beck and call. The _fucking_ part was certainly, thankfully, a fabrication. Not that he was monstrously unpleasant to look at, quite the opposite, but if she were ever to lay with him, or with anyone for that matter, she would obviously prefer to make the decision herself rather than be coerced. She knew that as a slave she was fortunate to even maybe have a choice; therefore, she would assert her right to choose.

She was supposed to be delivering a thank-you note from him to Sif. Why he couldn’t just put it in the courier box was beyond her. No, it had to be _hand-delivered._ She was rounding the corner and headed into the lobby area of the Ladies’ wing when her target came straight to her. Sif, tall, proud, and dangerously beautiful wearing her armor. Soon, she would be out in the courtyard, training with her sword. A sword that she might become painfully well-acquainted with should this whole thing go bottoms-up.

“Bótny,” she said sharply. “What are you doing in these parts of the palace?”

“My Lady, I have a missive,” she said, bowing her head. “From Prince Loki.”

Sif’s eyes shifted back and forth before boring into Zahra’s. “Come to my private chambers.” Zahra followed her former master dutifully as she pivoted on her heel and led her back down the corridor.  

As soon as they stepped into her bedroom, Zahra quickly removed the letter from her gown and handed it to Sif.

Sif’s chambers were smaller than Loki’s, but no less ornate. One might think that serious, strong Lady Sif would like more Spartan accommodations, but they would be wrong. Her rooms, smelling of salt and cinnamon, were certainly those of a woman who wanted to be Queen. While Loki’s color of preference was green, Sif preferred a bold, blood red; much like her betrothed, Prince Thor. Her bed, situated in a corner of the room, was large and had many pillows. Next to it, a plush burgundy chaise that Sif lowered herself to sit on. 

She opened the letter, silently perusing it before raising her eyebrows “A thank-you note,” she said, looking up from the small parchment to Zahra’s face. “Whatever you’ve got between your legs, girl, Loki surely enjoyed partaking.”

Zahra swallowed. She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she said nothing.

Sif didn’t seem too concerned at her lack of response. Her eyes were like steel, hard and exacting. She was strategizing. “What did he say to you about me?” she asked, her voice low and quick.

 _Oh, you know...he hates you, too._ “He said your relationship was...strained. That he...has desires to amend, given that you are to be his sister-in-law. He fears that pride stands in the way.”

An eyebrow quirked. “He told you all of that?”

“And more,” Zahra rejoined. _Much, much more._

“I knew you would be perfect. You are just his type. Exotic,” Sif nodded, a self-affirmation that she’d made the right decision. “Play him just right, and he will tell you _all_ of his secrets.”

Silently, Zahra wondered whether or not every Midgardian who lived here was _exotic._ She continued to wait patiently as Sif perused the rest of the letter. After reading the bottom line the godling chucked it on her night table and began to urge Zahra out of her chambers.

“You are his handmaiden now? You must attend him during his name-day ceremony today. I will see you again at that time.”

 

 

 

 

After delivering the note to Sif, her next task was to go to the kitchens to modify Loki’s usual breakfast request to include whatever it was she’d like to eat. Every morning the kitchen workers prepared breakfast for the All-Father, his two sons, other more distant members of the royal family, the royal court, and his guests. Then the meals were delivered to each room as part of the morning room-service. So now, Zahra needed to talk with the head of the kitchens and add to Loki’s daily order to include her own, since she would now be his personal attendant. This was something that seemed so simple; but, in reality, it was quite ostentatious.

Usually all of the slaves took their meals at the same times in a small dining hall near the kitchen. To now be breaking her fast away from all of the other Midgardians, only in the company of her lord, in his chambers…

(in _their_ chambers, now that Loki had made arrangements for her in one of the rooms that adjoined to his)

now... _that_ had along with it some implications. She already knew what kinds of names she’d be called-- _whore, traitor, bedwench._

She supposed she could count herself lucky that this was all a ruse, and not actually going the way Sif meant for, with her being used for her body. She wasn’t the only handmaiden around, and she knew how they were treated by the others. It was terrible, really. Of all the Midgardians enslaved on Asgard, women, and specifically the young women taken as personal handmaidens by the noble folk, were among the most vulnerable. And yet they were ostracized. It mattered not to the men that these women were taken without consent, only that they were seemingly less accessible as partners, now.

 

 

 

 

“Bótny, isn’t it?” The head of the kitchens had kind eyes and a gap between his front teeth. He was kneading dough, preparing warm rolls and sweet pastries for breakfast. “But that’s not your real name.”

Unlike the Asgardians, the enslaved humans cared to know each other’s birth names. The head of the kitchens was called Trygve but his mother had named him Samuel. “Zahra de la Cruz,” she told him, including her family name without really thinking about it.

“Zahra?” he asked, pronouncing it with care.

“Yes.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” she said with a small grin.

“I usually just go by Sam,” he said as he continued working through the pale dough, “but hearing _Samuel_ out of your mouth makes me feel very fancy, so it’s your choice, really,” he grinned. “I hear you are Prince Loki’s new handmaiden.” His smile deflated slightly, his eyes growing sympathetic.

 _Word sure does travel quickly around here_ , she thought. The thought must have read on her face because Sam chuckled. “I’m one of the Lady Sif’s,” he explained. “She told me you’d come by these parts.”

“Ah.” She supposed that he knew all about what Sif’s expectations for her were. She wondered how much Sam knew of Loki, of Thor, of Odin and the royal family.

“How does, uh,” he looked troubled, unsure of how to ask his question. His voice dropped down to a whisper. “How has he treated you?”

Zahra looked into Sam’s beautiful dark eyes, saw the pity there in them, remembered that he belonged to Sif, remembered that she had to lie. “He…” she began, her voice trailing off. “Well, he was more--more--gentle than I was expecting.”

Sam let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry you’re being made to do this, Zahra. I have to tell you. I don’t think it’s right.”

She sucked in a breath. “I appreciate that, Samuel. I don’t think...well, I am frightened,” she said, trying to make sure she didn’t accidentally reveal her agreement with Loki. “But I take strength and wisdom from my ancestors, and I--they make me less frightened.” It was true. She had been praying as much as possible, as often as possible in the few hours since she’d descended into Loki’s chambers. And then, with the dream she’d had last night-- _Salte._ Jump. She knew they had heard her, and they were telling her, yes, go through with it, she would be guided.

Sam was staring at her. The dough sat untouched on the marble counter. “My family,” he began slowly, his voice low and shaking ever so softly. “Has been here, enslaved, for three generations. My grandmother tells me that on Earth, we had been enslaved there, too.”

Zahra sharply inhaled. A Lost One. Sor Belén had told her of Los Perdidos, people from their continent whose forebears had not travelled away of their own volition, as Zahra’s had, but were _taken_ , ripped away from their homeland and sold into bondage. She supposed that every Midgardian on Asgard was a Lost One, but Sam was lost twice-over. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Sam huffed a breath, smiling sadly. “Thank you. I uh, I wanted to say that both there and here, my grandmother sought our ancestors for guidance as well. I like to believe that they protect us. That things could be worse, if not for them…” Here, he paused, shaking his head. “My apologies; I think we’ve gotten a little bit too dreary for this time of day. We’ve still got a whole day to face. So,” here he paused, walking away from the counter and the flour dough to retrieve a small piece of parchment and a fountain pen--a Midgardian invention--from pockets in his apron. “for breakfast, obviously it is your choice, but I have a few recommendations.”  Zahra simply nodded, urging him to go on. “Dragonflesh for strength.” He said with certainty. “It’s tough and chewy, but it’s really quite good for you. Cinnamon buns, because, well, they are tasty. And, blue cohosh tea.”

“What is the tea for?” she asked curiously.

“It’s contraceptive. Many human women drink it, not just the, uh, handmaidens. As a precaution.”

Zahra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean, a Midgardian can be impregnated by an Aesir?”

Sam nodded. “We are not all that different, Midgardians and Asgardians...They only want us to think so. Remember that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she returned to Loki’s chambers, there was already another in his company, a blonde-haired woman who lounged on top of his bed. As soon as Zahra walked into Loki’s bedroom, the woman’s eyes flew to her, immediately sizing her up.

“Oh, she _is_ pretty,” she said, slowly emerging from her spot on Loki’s bed. When she was standing at her full height-- _Lord,_ she was tall--she inclined her head with a tilted smile on her rouged lips. “I am Amora.”

Zahra bowed, murmuring, “My lady,” before her eyes went to Loki. She knew very well who Amora the Enchantress was. She was from Vanaheim, another realm under the influence of the All-Father. Amora was known far and wide throughout the Nine, just like the members of the royal family and the court. She was known for her many talents and abilities: sorcery, craft-making, singing, dancing, poetry and, not the least important, the ability to charm any man out of his money. Amora was a courtesan, and a diplomat, and a sorceress of many capabilities; it was no wonder that she was known as the Enchantress.

While still a colony, the people of Vanaheim possessed more autonomy, more freedom than Midgardians did. To Zahra’s knowledge, there were no Vanir slaves.

There were, however, Vanir prisoners of war. Typically, they were radicals who had been spreading ideas of revolutions and uprisings against the Asgardians. It it said that Amora herself had relatives who were imprisoned for such a reason. Zahra, of course, knew nothing of the validity of those rumors, but was intrigued by the woman’s presence all the same.

What was she doing in Loki’s chambers? It was said that Amora was close-- _very_ close--to the royal family. The All-Father had, in fact, took her in as a ward when her father died. (Of course, there were whisperings about the death of Amora and Lorelei’s father. Whisperings of secrets, lies, and poison.) Zahra wondered, were she and Loki quite close? Were they together, a couple? What could that mean for her, if they were?

Loki arched an eyebrow with a crooked smile. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself, little one?”

Once again, a tense muscle worked in her jaw--he would not cease in calling her “little.” But Loki and Amora were watching expectantly, and she felt like this was some sort of test. So she bowed again. “Apologies, my Lady. I am Bótny. I hail from one of the All-Father’s colonies in Europa.”

Loki looked offended. Zahra bit back a swell of amusement as she looked at his face, because he was actually _pouting._ “You didn’t tell me where you were from last night.”

She had a go at smiling coyly. “All respect, my lord, but you were occupied with things other than that.”

Loki barked a laugh. “You may drop the pretenses, my dear,” he said. “Amora is aware of our arrangement.”

“Yes,” the Enchantress agreed. “Though is it really an arrangement, yet? You have yet to finalize the pact, I think.”

So, Amora really _did_ know everything. Loki must’ve really trusted her, she thought. How did that bode for whether _Zahra_ could trust her?

 

She would just have to take the chance, it seemed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on the tumbles as lucylumiere! 
> 
> Comments are my fave ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·


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